


The Loneliest Place

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Max decompress after a difficult mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loneliest Place

They managed to hole up in some God-forsaken bombed out building. Michael scanned the walls for an signs of life and was presented with far too many memories, none of them his own. Twenty years ago, Michael thought, tracing the growth chart someone had whittled into the door, this had been someone’s house.

“We’ve got a thirty-minute wait for an evac,” said Max, coming in from the outside. “Looks like they got Veracruz down the street.”

Michael’s mind was far away, though he nodded his head just once. Max clapped him on the back. “All right?”

“Fine. It’s just a little disquieting. He was holding so many kids here…”

“It’ll be all right.” Michael knew that. “Let’s go sit down in the living room.”

Michael allowed himself to be maneuvered downstairs, with its fancy upholstery and cushions. Max sighed and tossed himself onto a couch, eyeing Michael curiously. “Getting to you finally?”

“It’s been a long night,” Michael replied.

Max slipped over, easily “Let’s make it better,” Max whispered, stroking Michael’s cheek. The kiss that followed silenced and floored them both.

Desperation. Max unbuttoning his fly and pulling his cock out, stroking it hard; Michael reaching for Max’s crotch and squeezing. How quickly they’d found each other, how desperately; Max groaned into Michael’s neck, biting his flesh like a ripe fruit. Michael crying out into the frigid air, hands soothing Max’s hard cock with his own touch, trying, desperately, to show how much this meant to him. Slick, careful strokes with heavy, rough palms. Twisted grimaces. Low moans. The wet track of lips running over hair-roughed skin.

An explosion much hotter than the room that tightens every muscle in Michael’s body. Wetness in his palm. A sigh.

Weakness and peace. Then sleep, and the sound of a helicopter overhead.

He opened his eyes and Max was gone.

He’d been gone for a year, now.

There was nowhere in the world emptier than a bombed-out city. And there’s no lonelier feeling than knowing your lover’s nothing but a ghost.


End file.
